by Will Wight
Lindon looked ashamed, but he didn’t pick the sword back up. “I have to go get my pack.”
Yerin marched over and snatched her master’s weapon from the dirt as Orthos squirmed to right himself. Her bloody fingernails sent sharp pain up her arms, but nothing she couldn’t ignore. “If you were making this mistake alone, I’d let you. But you’re not.” She leaped over the turtle, landing next to its head, and raised her blade. Her madra flowed into it, gathering along its edge, gathering aura.
The target’s black-and-red eyes rolled in their sockets, searching. Not furious any longer.
Lost.
They stared at her as though begging for an answer. A low groan rumbled in the turtle’s throat.
“Do…what…you…must…” the sacred beast said, in a voice both ancient and heavy.
Yerin paused with her white blade against the black, leathery throat. Everything in her told her to split the turtle’s neck.
She sheathed her sword and jogged back to Lindon. He started running for his pack, and she joined him.
“Not even an enemy, really, is he?” she muttered, as they ran side by side.
“I’ve never thought so, no.”
“The Path makes him crazy?”
“His mind can’t compete with the feelings in his spirit.” He gave a sheepish smile. “That’s the impression I get.”
“Well, if it happens to you, I will cut your head off.”
The Sword Sage taught her not to show mercy to her enemies, but he also taught her to act in a way she wouldn’t regret. Well, if his bloodthirsty Remnant and her blood madra parasite agreed on something, she could bet she’d regret it sooner or later.
They spent more than a minute chasing Little Blue around the cave and scooping her back into the tank. Otherwise, packing up was easy as a breath; Lindon kept his stuff so organized it would make a librarian jealous, and Yerin didn’t have anything. Everything she owned, she kept on her body.
They returned to the Ruler Trial, Lindon cupping a quivering Sylvan in his hands. He was certain the Riverseed’s power could calm Orthos’ spirit, but Yerin kept a grip on her sword.
She didn’t want to kill someone she’d just spared, but Lindon could be too trusting.
When they returned and found Orthos gone, he tucked the Sylvan away as though he’d expected as much, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Nothing left for us here,” she said, grabbing him by a shoulder and dragging him toward the exit. When he didn’t move fast enough to suit her, she pulled him into a run.
“I doubt we can clear the Ruler Trial now,” Lindon said as they ran, looking like a turtle himself with the pack bouncing on his back.
“I’m feeling a little doubt myself,” Yerin said, voice dry. A chunk of the ninety-nine dummies had been ravaged by the aftermath of their battle, either destroyed by Blackflame or shredded by the Endless Sword. Good thing for them that the course hadn’t activated, or the mannequins might have joined in.
“You think Eithan will understand us leaving early?” He sounded anxious.
Yerin was still picking up flares of chaos from the city. They’d been driven out of the Trials by a wild sacred beast while Serpent’s Grave was breaking into a war zone. Eithan was cracked in the head if he expected them to stay where they were.
The exit arch was black, not red, but its script flared at the touch of Lindon’s Blackflame madra. It took him visible effort to activate the circle, and his core felt like the spark at the end of a fizzling incense stick.
Not that she was in much better shape herself. Madra sloshed in her core like the last drops at the bottom of a bottle, and her fingers throbbed like she’d run over her hands with a wagon.
They emerged onto a cliff overlooking Serpent’s Grave. A path cut into the rock sloped steadily downward.
But they both froze at what they saw. And what they felt.
As she’d expected, war had come to the city.
Streaks of deadly white light tore through homes. The dragon bone held up, but even at this distance, they could see holes in everything else: wood, plaster, and paint showed smoking gaps where they’d been torn apart by the sacred arts.
Gouts of stone, blasts of wind, and flares of color marked sacred artists fighting all through the streets. The ceaseless ringing of bells reached them even up on the cliff, along with the occasional drifting scream. Smoke hung over everything, and the vital aura of blood, fire, and destruction spread through the city like red and black ink seeping into a painting. Here and there, Remnants crawled over and through buildings.
Lindon looked horrified, clutching the jade badge hanging from his neck as though for comfort. Yerin loosened her own grip on her sword, because she was squeezing blood from her fingertips.
“Eithan’s not in the city,” she said.
“How can you be sure?”
“This wouldn’t be happening. There’d be heaps of dead Jai clansmen piled up all over the city.”
“We can go back through the Trials,” Lindon said, voice low and determined. “Circle around. We’ll come out in the back of Arelius territory. Eithan or Cassias will find us first, we can be sure of that.”
Yerin patted her pockets, making sure she still had a flask of water, a wrapped packet of dry food, her knife, and the gold badge her master had left her. Those, her robes, and her sword were the only belongings she needed.
“We should get started for the capital,” she said. “Never been to Blackflame City, but I’ve been everywhere else, and a couple of sacred artists with no name, no clan, and decent Paths can find work anywhere.”
“Eithan wouldn’t be too happy about that, I’m sure,” Lindon said carefully.
That was something to chew on. If anyone could track them down in the mass of a big city, Eithan could.
“That’s sharp thinking, but he couldn’t blame us for striking out on our own after…this.” She swept her arm to encompass the ruined city. “Somebody wants to fight with me and mine, you know I’ll draw swords. But the Arelius family hasn’t given us so much that I’d want to die on their account. Nobody there would shed a tear if they saw my Remnant.”
For most of her life, the only one who would remember her at all would have been her master. Now…Lindon would cry for her when she was gone. He’d remember her name.
Even more reason not to go down there.
“We should go back to the Trials,” Lindon said at last, though he didn’t sound too happy about it.
“Big turtle’s somewhere back there,” she pointed out. “If it goes crazy on us again, we’re—”
Her spirit warned her, and she shoved Lindon back against the rocks.
Two sacred artists landed in front of her, their backs to the cliff, but there were more up above who hadn’t shown themselves. One was a man about her height, packed tight like a coiled spring, draped in black fur. His gray hair was slicked back with grease, a pair of spear butts poked up over his shoulders, and he glared at Lindon in a way that reminded her of a snake baring fangs.
Next to him, a head taller and wrapped in red, stood Jai Long. Last time she’d seen him, his spirit felt deadly but contained, like a sheathed sword. Now the sheath had been removed—not only was he Truegold as well, with power that pressed against her senses, he felt dangerous. Like he’d cut her just by standing near.
The strips of red cloth covered his face, each bandage filled with flowing script. Dark eyes glittered in the center of the mask.
This time, he carried no spear.
Two Truegolds. ‘Show me a fair fight,’ her master used to say, ‘and I’ll show you an opponent who has lost his mind.’ Even so, there were rigged games, and then there was suicide.
The old Sandviper snarled and swept his hand through the air. A handful of finger-length needles, Forged of acid-green madra, flew out in a spray.
Circulating the Rippling Sword technique, Yerin stepped forward to meet him.
Her core might have been filled with hopes and wishes a
nd nothing else, but she squeezed out every drop of power she could get. The needles crashed against her arching sword like a wave against stone, but that wasn’t the end of her technique.
Her madra flashed out, a crescent-shaped slash of colorless power sheathed in silver aura. For a moment, shock flashed across the Sandviper Truegold’s face, and he pulled spears into his hands with blurring speed.
Then Jai Long was there, his hand glowing white and crashing into her technique. The Rippling Sword broke like a bubble, sword aura dispersing into the air.
“Yerin Arelius,” Jai Long said evenly. “Disciple of the Sword Sage. The Underlord told me who you were. If you’d told me last time, I would never have drawn weapons, out of respect for your master.”
“The ‘Arelius’ part is still all shiny and new,” Yerin said, still channeling the dregs of her madra into her sword. “Guess you might say I was adopted. If you wanted to use words instead of weapons this time, I could show mercy and let you.”
The Sandviper lifted a spear, eyes glued to Lindon, and Jai Long started cycling madra. In that blink where they weren’t focused on her, Yerin spun.
She kicked Lindon in the chest, sending him back into the tunnel and closer to the Trial. A Sandviper technique shattered into green light on bare rock where Lindon had been standing, and the gray-haired man was dashing past her, a frustrated growl turning into a shout as he ran.
Above her, the other nearby Sandvipers grew closer.
She turned back, and Jai Long had already charged.
Yerin had a clear obstacle. She had a fight. Now, she just had to do as her master taught her…and cut right through it.
In the dark shadows of her mind, the fear of death reared its head again.
***
Jai Daishou, Patriarch of the Jai clan, stared through the bubble of aura at the blurred figure with yellow hair and blurred robes.
Ordinarily, sound would not travel well through this boundary formation, but Eithan would be able to see him and hear him. He raised the spear of his honored ancestor, displaying it before the enemy.
Then he shook his head, showing sadness on his face to mask the triumph in his heart. “Your path of recklessness led us here, Eleven. You have done as you wished, acting on the whims of youth without respect or consideration. This is a harvest you have planted.”
The elders around him nodded along. They’d gathered close to the Underlord, like children gathering around their father.
Well, let them. This was Jai Daishou’s moment of victory, and the more people who witnessed it, the better.
Eithan’s face was unreadable through the haze of the aura. He held his broom out to one side; it was hard to make out details, but it didn’t seem to be a weapon or a construct. Just a broom.
Jai Daishou’s grip on his spear tightened as he grew irritated. “You could hear me if I were on the other side of the mountain, Eleven. Speak like a grown man, for once in your life, and perhaps we can come to an accord.”
Eithan spun the broom in a lazy circle, like a staff, and still didn’t speak.
Finally, Jai Daishou’s self-restraint broke. For the past six years, since he came from the other end of the world, Eithan Arelius had been a walking disaster. He’d disrespected the Jai clan, ignored the words of his betters, and insulted Jai Daishou to his face. In front of the Emperor once, and the honored Emperor had said not a word.
A man could tolerate only so much before patience reached its end.
Jai Daishou leveled the Ancestor’s Spear, shifting his stance and letting madra flow freely into his limbs. “Then you’ll forgive me for testing the skills of the youngest Underlord in the Empire.”
This formation had been designed with Eithan in mind. No one knew what Path he used, but there were no reports of his ever using a Striker technique. Most reports agreed that he used a Path focused on Enforcement, probably focused on the force aspect. He might have even trained with the Cloud Hammer School, though he lacked their Goldsign.
Eithan’s hair blew behind him in the wind generated by the force of the boundary formation. He faced Jai Daishou squarely, until the Jai Patriarch was sure they were locking gazes. The Arelius held the broom in one hand, pointing it toward one of the Jai elders.
No, not to the elder. To the boundary flag.
“Whose idea was the boundary?” Eithan asked, and though the words sounded distorted, Jai Daishou could hear them clearly.
“I knew I would need something to prevent you from running for your life,” he said. The truth was, this barrier would allow the passage of madra. He intended to skewer Eithan with Striker techniques while the Underlord couldn’t fight back.
Jai Daishou had spent most of his life building up a reputation of honor and respect that anyone in the Empire would envy, but as death approached, he found that saving face in the eyes of his peers had less and less appeal.
What could their ridicule do to him? Ruin his clan? His clan would fall apart the moment he was buried. Now, only results mattered.
The Jai Patriarch’s spearhead blazed like a white sun as he prepared a Star Lance. The other elders spread out around the dome, doing the same.
Eithan nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “Now there are no witnesses.”
A dull gray spark passed from the middle of the broom where Eithan gripped it, washing along to both ends. Soulfire: the signature of an Underlord. Where the blaze passed, the broom’s color darkened, remade in the fires of condensed vital aura. It would conduct energy almost perfectly now, and would be tougher than steel. All the best weapons were imbued with a Lord’s soulfire.
That was all within Jai Daishou’s calculations. And it was still just a broom.
Jai Daishou hesitated before launching his Striker technique. Maybe Eithan Arelius really was arrogant to the point of madness. The young Underlord had always seemed brash with the overconfidence of youth, combined with pride in his admittedly high natural gifts, but now…
No Truegold was a match for an Underlord, certainly. Soulfire itself, and the process of weaving it from vital aura, gave Lords powers that no Gold could access.
But it wasn’t as though a Truegold could do nothing. Where a lone wolf was only prey, a pack of wolves could bring down a tiger. Skilled as they were, these six Truegold elders working together could bring Eithan down on their own. With Jai Daishou added in, the Arelius Underlord was already dead.
He was just speaking out of pride, that was all.
Just pride.
***
As Lindon stumbled back through the Trial gate, slapping his hand against the script to reactivate the aura barrier, he tried to remember how many times Yerin had knocked him out of danger.
It had to be at least six by now, he was sure. It wounded his dignity, being kicked away like a wild dog, but if he had to choose between wounded dignity and a spear through the chest, he knew which he’d pick.
All those times, and what could he do when she was in danger? Nothing. Just run.
Hating himself, Lindon ran back into the Ruler Trial. His first hope was dashed when he realized Orthos wasn’t there; he was still nearby, but he could be anywhere in the Trial grounds or back in the tunnels.
A green flash of light shattered the aura barrier and the gray-haired Sandviper crashed through, a short spear in each hand. Endless Sword madra still flickered outside, so Yerin was fighting, and at least she didn’t have to face two Truegold opponents at once.
Lindon ran for the Trial entrance. If he could make it back to the Enforcer course, he could hide in the rubble of the columns that Orthos had left behind. Then—
A nail drove through his calf, and he went down. He caught himself with both hands and rolled before hitting the ground, so the green Forged nail intended to go through his other leg hit the dirt instead.
His Blackflame core was hopelessly empty, and his Bloodforged Iron body was draining pure madra to his calf like a bucket with a hole in it. He pinched the needle with two fingers—the Sandviper ma
dra stung his skin like acid—and pulled it out.
Then he let his pack slide to the ground, turning to face his pursuer.
“My name is Wei Shi Lindon, honored Truegold,” Lindon said, spreading his hands. “As you can see, I’m only a Jade, and surely I have nothing to interest an elder of your caliber.”
“Sandviper Gokren,” he growled. “Kral’s father.”
When the spear came in, Lindon instinctively tried to form the Burning Cloak. Of course, nothing happened—he was cycling pure madra, and it had to be handled differently. But he clumsily Enforced his arms anyway, managing to knock the thrust off course.
The second spear followed instantly, and he had to step back to stop it. Which meant putting weight on his bleeding calf.
He tried to stop the scream, but when he faltered and took a spearhead to the shoulder, he screamed all the same.
Lindon covered his face with his hands as another technique came in, but the spray of needles covered him from head to hips. At first, he trusted in the power of his Iron body and his Enforcer technique to save him, but the strength of a Truegold overwhelmed him. Every wound burned with poison, and his body leaked madra trying to counteract the Sandviper venom.
His lungs locked up. He couldn’t get a breath. His madra channels flickered and went dark, the pain overwhelming him as his Enforcer technique broke.
Gokren was shouting something, face purple with rage, but Lindon didn’t hear a word of it. He was drifting away, his flesh distant, as darkness crept into the corners of his vision.
Orthos hit Gokren like a landslide.
The turtle’s roar shook the canyon. Foreign anger echoed in Lindon’s soul, and Blackflame power flared against acid-green light. Rocks cracked, men shouted, and fire crackled.
The fight continued, but all the other details faded with Lindon’s consciousness.
Time passed in a haze of pain as the ground shook beneath him. He came back to himself choking on a mouthful of dirt and ash. He was riddled with holes, blood still seeping out of him, and he was starting to shiver. But the Bloodforged Iron body had done its job; at least venom no longer crawled through his veins.